A butterfly flaps its wings in Little Whinging
by Luna's little noodle
Summary: "A butterfly can flap its wings in Peking and in Central Park you get rain instead of sunshine." Or, Dudley Dursley was given a choice, and he chose wrong.


**The only thing that's mine is the idea.**

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Dudley Dursley folded his arms as he stared at the man in front of him.

The man was taller than him, much taller than his Daddy – but definitely skinnier. He had a purple towel wrapped around his head, like his Mummy would wrap her towel after getting out of the shower, except her towel was white. Plus, his Mummy always smelled like flowers whenever she wore a towel around her head, while the man in front of him smelled like garlic. His hands trembled as he spoke, twisting around and over each other, and when he let them fall to his sides they tapped the side of his legs every so often.

Dudley tapped his right foot, thinking it over.

The man had appeared at the last school bell, when all the parents arrived, and when Mrs Bullington went over to him he took out a stick and waved it in a funny pattern. She had then come over to him and taken him to the man.

"But what about Harry?" he had asked, because when he called his cousin names in front of teachers they told him off for it. _Him_. It was an outrage. After all, if Mummy let him call the Freak names, then he _must_ be allowed to do it. But the teachers didn't think so, and after the third time he got sent to Time-Out Dudley realised his teachers weren't always right.

Mrs Bullington had just laughed, but didn't answer his question, and left him with the man.

He was actually very nice, the man. He had taken Dudley to the shops, and gotten him an ice cream, even though it was nearly tea time. His Mummy _never_ let him have food before tea time. Which, he had decided, while licking the ice cream, was really unfair of her.

After he finished the ice cream, the man bought him a Super Nerf Gun from the really _really_ big toy store across from the Tesco's, and as they walked back to Privet Drive had passed him a brown paper bag.

Upon opening it, Dudley had found it was chock-full of sweets. He had eaten a ton as they walked home, but the bag never seemed to get emptier. They were nice sweets too, strawberry and orange and blackcurrant and lime in paper wrappers. He couldn't wait to eat them in front of the Freak, and watch how he would look at him hopefully before realising he wouldn't get _anything_. But, if the man was telling the truth, he wouldn't have to share anything with the Freak ever again.

When they reached Number Four, Privet Drive, the man had stayed on the pavement. Then he'd asked Dudley the question he was currently thinking over.

"Well?" the man prompted, smiling at him. "Will you let me take your cousin off you hands?"

"Alright," Dudley decided, unfolding his arms and shoving the bag the man had given him in his pocket. "But you have to promise me something," he continued, as the man's smile got much wider and fuller.

"Anything, Dudley, anything," the man replied, looking like everything he'd ever wanted was being given to him on a silver platter. Which was stupid, as all the man was getting was his dumb cousin, and no one would ever want _him_.

"You can't give the Freak any sweets," he said, "At _all_." The man looked slightly angry, like he had wanted to give the Freak sweets, and Dudley shivered. But he _had_ said anything, and _he_ was going to be the only one who got these sweets, not his stupid cousin. And anyway, a second later he didn't look angry at all, so he couldn't be _that_ angry (if he had ever been angry at all).

"Of course," the man said smoothly, looking behind him to the house. "If you wouldn't mind getting your cousin," he prompted, and Dudley went into the house, leaving the man on the pavement.

"Oi, Freak," he called out upon entering the house. His Mummy wasn't there, which was weird: she was always there to greet him. Dudley pushed it to the back of his mind, too excited at the prospect of getting rid of the Freak and making his parents proud.

Dudley yanked open the cupboard door, and the Freak squinted at him from behind the glasses he and his gang had snapped at break.

"Get your stuff, you're leaving," he said, and started walking to the kitchen to get a snack.

" _What_?" he gasped, and Dudley turned to see the Freak staring at him.

"You're leaving," he repeated (god, his cousin was so _stupid_ ). "And if you don't hurry up I'll make you leave your stuff here."

 _That_ got him moving. After a couple of minutes, he had packed everything in his cupboard into his backpack. The only thing the Freak left behind was the mattress.

Dudley grabbed his arm and dragged him out to the man. The Freak was _his_ now, and Dudley didn't want to deal with him anymore than he had too. "Here you are," he said to the man, then turned to go back inside. But his Mummy wasn't home yet, so there wouldn't be any snack prepared for him.

"Where's my Mummy?" he asked the man, because he'd been the one to pick him up from school instead of her, so he would know where she was.

The man looked at him again, and suddenly Dudley wanted him to forget the question so he could go inside, could wait for his Mummy there. Because the man looked angry again (and this time it wasn't for a split-second, he couldn't pretend he wasn't angry). His eyes _burned_ with hatred and a sneer was pulling at his lips.

"You and your family are despicable human beings, you do know," he said, and his tone was at complete odds with his expression: it was light and conversational, like he was pointing out the weather instead of disrespecting his family. "In fact," he continued, and the stick he'd waved in front of Mrs Bullington was in his hands again, "I may just do the world a favour and get rid of you too."

 _What_? This was _not_ happening! He was only supposed to get rid of the Freak. Then his Mummy would be pleased with him, and when his Daddy got home he would be really pleased with him too, and maybe they would take him to America, like he'd wanted ever since Sally Ann in class 4B went there on holiday.

The man pointed the stick at him. "Goodbye Dudley," he said, "It was not a pleasure, and I know I'll _never_ see you again." Then a green light appeared at the end of the stick, and everything faded away.

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"Now then," said the man, turning to him. Harry kept staring at Dudley's dead body, which, as he watched, morphed into a rock about the size of his fist. The man leant down and picked it up, before grinning at Harry. "I am Quirinus Quirrell," he said, slipping the rock (which had been his _cousin_ , his _dead_ cousin) in his pocket. "Though," he added with a grin, "You may know my master better."

Then, Quirrell unwound his turban, and on the back of his head was a chalk-white face. Red eyes blinked, slitted pupils obscured for moments, and Harry couldn't stop shaking. Dudley had just been killed in front of him, and now his killer had a horror-story worthy face on the back of his head.

"Hello Harry Potter," it rasped, staring down at him. "I am Lord Voldemort. When you were younger you killed me."

"But I can't have killed you." Even in the throes of his panic, Harry still was able to think rationally, and the man in front of him, while not exactly human, was definitely not dead.

"Oh you did," Voldemort assured him, "It just didn't really…" he grinned, all teeth and no humour, "stick." Voldemort glanced at the stick in Quirrell's hand with a pensive expression. "Let's see if I can do it better."

He turned around, and now Quirrell was grinning at him, the same not-grin as Voldemort. Quirrell raised his stick, and Harry, too terrified to move, stared wide-eyed as the tip again began to glow green.

His last thoughts (before a jet of green light hit him directly on his scar, and miles away in an old castle in Scotland an old man fell to his knees as one of his trinkets started whistling loudly, confusing the four others in the office with him) were of his parents, wondering if he would finally get to meet him.

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Six months later, Voldemort stole the Philosopher's Stone. Two weeks after, Magical Britain surrendered, followed shortly by the rest of the world.

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 **Hello everyone! I hope I got the characterisation right, because we see maybe a two and a half chapters of Dudley at eleven, if that. And lets just pretend that Quirrell and Voldemort attached to each other when they first met, and not when Quirrell failed to get the Philosopher's Stone from Gringotts.**

 **This was actually inspired by a part of the iPotter series on tumblr that you should all check out. Trust me, it's hilarious. But seriously, I saw the photo with Piers and Dudley, and inspiration hit. I wrote it all down a month ago, and the time between then and now has been me cringing, wondering whether or not to post this, and editing. But now we're here, and for better or worse this fic is now floating around the echelons of the internet. Hope you had fun reading it, and if any of you want to tell me what you think, I'd really appreciate it.**


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